Unexpendable
by Miss Andromeda Prime
Summary: When Barney hires ex-Ranger Rue Hunter to bounce at his bar, he expects just your average, run-of-the-mill bouncer. Well, there isn't anything average about Rue, and he soon finds that out when a mission in South America demands the role of a female Expendable. Perhaps Christmas was right about Barney's turn, and maybe there are some things in life which aren't expendable.
1. Prologue

**Unexpendable**

_I never imagined it would end like this. _

_ So sudden did the bullet lodge itself in the chest which I'd rested my head against countless times that it left my head spinning in a hundred different directions. His breath hitched, he dropped his M9, and he staggered there for a few seconds before his knees hit the sandy floor beneath him. Blood dripped down his torso and into the white sand, staining it with screaming alarm. More gunfire seized the air, took it by force, demanding attention from the rest of our team. My attention, though, focused on the oozing hole in the army green's, blood pumping out through the intruding circle faster than I could react, and within seconds after it had happened I knew he'd lost too much. _

_ I tossed my M16 aside, it skidding a few inches in the sand. I lunged for him, his upper body swaying on his knees, face draining of all color and resulting in a pasty white color—the color of death. I clawed my way through the sand, my boots finding no grip, until I was at his side. I caught his upper body in my arms and helped him down, his stalky six foot two frame heavy with muscle. As he came down, I maneuvered onto my bottom, sitting in the sand, his head on my lap. _

_ He was going. Dying. I could see it in his eyes that he was leaving me. Screaming pain erupted in my chest at the realization that I was losing the only man I'd ever truly loved, on the battlefield, war raging around us mercilessly. I looked up, seeing the Rangers around us returning fire to the Arabs, who pounded us with artillery inside their small, village compound, screaming their Arabic threats and death-cries. The heat was sweltering; my baret was soaked with a mixture of sweat, sand, and blood, and I squinted against the sunlight, my glasses smeared with perspiration and scratched from sharp sand grains. An explosion in the distance screamed, kicked up a puff of sand and the breeze sent it raining down around us. I ignored the cries of my fellow soldiers, focused only on him. He, though ragged for breath and oozing life-giving blood, smiled at me and reached a hand up, wincing. His fingers touched my chin and he winked. _

_ "I love you, Rue," he managed, wincing and ragged for breath. I could hear blood bubbles in his mouth, and was reassured of my claim when I saw red against his teeth. I guessed momentarily the bullet had hit the lung, and I managed to stifle my insane need to sob into a sniffle. I took his face in my hands and lowered my lips to his own, and planted a thick and heavy kiss there. The sharp taste of blood erupted on my tongue. I pulled back. _

_ "Don't say that quite yet," I lifted a shaky hand to tuck one of my stray curls behind my makeshift turban. Gunfire sounded to my left, and I lowered myself over him, his radio coming to life in his ear. I plucked it from him and tossed it aside. "Stay with me, Nick, stay with me. We'll get a MedEvac out—"_

_ He smiled, "Babe, I'm going. He's calling my name. I hear it…I have to go," he closed his eyes and grabbed my wrist. Then he opened his eyes and stared into my own, "Promise me you'll make it out of here, and out of the Rangers. Promise me, Ruth, promise me."_

_ I nodded furiously, the tears coming now. No, no, this couldn't be happening. Nick couldn't be dying! We were getting married in August! My mind flashed a picture of our engagement party, just a few weeks before we were sent into Iraq. I released a shaky sob now, hoping none of the other guys saw my lack of composure—or any of the Arabs, "Yeah, Nick, I promise." I grabbed his hand and interlaced our fingers together, pulling his bloody and dirty knuckles to my lips for a kiss, "Please, don't—"_

_ "I love you, Ruth. I love…" his voice trailed as he hitched for a breath, it not even making it into his filling lungs. I heard the gurgle of blood settling inside his lungs, and knew they were not only swimming, but they had drowned. His eyes turned lifeless, the green pools of promise I'd known just moments before now dark as they stared into a hopelessly blue sky. I grabbed his face in my hands and screamed. _

_ "Nick!" I cried, exhausted of all my courage and composure, "Nick! No, no, baby, please!" Gunfire erupted over my head and I hit the dirt, covering his body with my own, refusing to believe he'd actually died. His body was still warm, but still of all signs of life, and the warm, oozing blood soaking his uniform seeped into my hands and onto my cheek. I was convulsing with sobs now, desperate to go, desperate for safety; to be out of this warzone. Everyone knew Nick and I were together; everyone knew we were the best team out there…the Captain had warned us not to go into this together… _

_ Those warnings left me as two hands grabbed my arms from behind. I screamed, kicked out a leg, and sent the intruder crumbling. I reached into my boot to retrieve on e of my knives and whirled around to see one of the Rangers, Kelsey, scrambling away from me like a crab on the beach. He was riddled with sweat, sand, and dirt as well and got to his knees. I looked to Nick's body again, and then back to Kelsey. "He's dead, Kels! He's….dead."_

_ "I know, Rue, I know," He stood now, hunched over, and extended a hand to me, "We gotta go, they're sending a chopper to get us out of here. We have to move!" The opposing gunfire from the Arabs was getting louder now as they closed in on our position. I looked to Nick's body and Kelsey stopped me before I could voice the idea, "There's no time to take him, Rue, we have to go!" He grabbed my wrist, "The chopper—"_

_ "—no, not without his tags!" I screamed, roughly tossing his hand aside. He grabbed his Ruger side-arm and covered me against the approaching Arabs as I tore open Nick's shirt. I took his dog-tags and draped them around my neck, where they rested against my own, and then I removed his wallet, as well as the ring on his left finger—our engagement pair. Sliding it onto my left thumb, I grabbed his side arm and clip and stuck it in my utility belt, then bent to kiss him again. His lips were cold now, and seemingly rubber against my own. I closed his eyes and kissed him again. "I love you," I whispered to him, "I will always love you." Kelsey then grabbed my wrist unexpectedly and jerked me away into a run, towards the desert, until we dropped over a sand dune and slid down it, the Arab fire now over our heads. I saw the rest of the Rangers, three of them, all do the same in every direction, all headed toward the chopper, which was landed and kicking up a cloud of sand from the blade propulsion. _

_ We ducked low, hurried towards the chopper as the pilots provided cover fire for us as we boarded the Huey. Some of us had sustained gunfire, as noted from Monty, our team's navigator, who ripped open the arm of his uniform to sport a nice sized bullet hole from a shotgun. One of the pilots came around and injected him with some morphine and began to dress the wound, Kelsey taking his place and providing fire. The other pilot checked out the area before initiating flight procedures for liftoff. Monty unholstered his issued M9 and began firing at the stationary Arabs along with Kelsey. I just sat, my legs over the edge, watching as they disappeared behind us, numb. I could hardly breathe. _

_ I hadn't expected it to end this way. _

. . .

_**Six Years Later**_

"1 in the corner pocket,"

"No way!"

I gave my opponent a sly smile, knowing full well he was nervous that he was losing this game. Arnold, the 72-year-old diesel mechanic insisted each and every Friday night that "this was his night" in winning our standing game of pool. Each and every night I had topped him by at least ten points for three years, never truly knowing if Arnie had tried his best or if he was just being polite. We'd both been coming to Rusty's for years, and we'd both frequented the pool table enough to have a mutual understanding of the others' skill.

I sent the 1 ball into the corner pocket, it cracking against the 2 and 11, sending them creeping along the green felt tabletop. Arnie gaped at the corner pocket, then look to me and rested the bottom of his stick on the ground, his hands on top the chalked end. He reached for the chalk square and furiously began to chalk his tip, and then he frowned at me, "Lucky shot, Miss Hunter," he sighed, "What am I gunna do with you?"

"Buy me a beer and we'll call it square," I cocked my hip to the side and leaned against my own cue, smiling at him and winking, "I like Coors." He waved me off and set his cue on the table and gimped over to the counter, his old frame awkward in the mixture of young bikers and travelers. I, now alone at the table, felt a stare watching me and ignored it, instead content on chalking my cue and positioning my next move in my head.

The music cranked up a few decibels, a classic by Mountain, which I hadn't heard in quite some time. The floor began to vibrate in sync with the bass, and a couple of satisfied, drunken cheers erupted from the bar, beer sloshing over the side of a raised mug. I shook my head as the man took a long drawl, a few ladies seated beside him, before he unceremoniously slid off his stool and into the bar. The bystanders, perhaps friends, erupted into mocking laughter, pointing and making jabs at him.

Meanwhile a lively game of darts was in the happening, between a mid-30's man and a matching age, taller, African-American one. They threw their darts with precision, one dangerously close to the bulls-eye, the other to the outer white. They made jabs at one another, elbowing in the sides, smiling and laughing while drawing on their individual drinks; one a Coors and another a dark, brandy looking thing that looked cold and quite good.

I checked the neon enclosed clock above the bar, and it read after ten. That was fine, I didn't have anywhere particular to be tomorrow, and happy hour started at eleven. Arnold would be heading out at ten after, so I had to make the best of my time in this game before I was sentenced to my stool, which was waiting in the corner of the bar for me, thanks to Rina and Marg, they bartenders, who always kept a place open for me on Fridays.

I felt the stare again, this time hotter almost, and turned around. The corner table closest to the jukebox sported a group of four guys, all a bit older, maybe forties. Not all of them were staring, but the one with longer hair and a weathered face was. The silver streaks in his locks was less than enchanting, and he looked like he'd been born riding a bike, the way his outfit was put together. I gave him a "yeah right" look when he smiled and lifted his chin at me, like men do, and rounded around the pool table, back to him.

It wasn't unusual being the object of male attention here at Rusty's. Granted, I was no supermodel, but to drunken men, a female is a female. Most often many of my admirer's were put down gently by a firm but soft "no thanks", and some others I let buy me drinks, depending on their chivalry and my mood. This one, however, was odd. Something about him reeked of bad news, and I wasn't in the neighborhood to look for a fight. I gave a look to Rina and Marg, who could sense my discomfort even from across the bar.

Under the music I heard a chair scrape against the worn wood floors, and felt the footfalls of an approaching figure, my admirer, I was sure. I didn't turn around, instead placed my hands on top of the cue, and timed his footfalls. Three more steps and he'd be right to me, one…two…

…I rounded the corner of the pool table quickly, now facing him, and looked him over as he corrected himself by allowing his hand to drop from where it would have most certainly touched my exposed shoulder. I cocked my hip and looked at him expectantly. He put a hand on the side of the pool table, as if to steady him, and then looked to the game. Removing the toothpick from the craw of him mouth, he gestured with his hand across the table. "Nice game you got goin'. That was a lucky shot."

"Not if you know how to make it," I said somewhat defensively. I was getting the vibe that he was interested, but not drunk, and my alert was on overdrive. I wasn't leaving here with anyone, as usual, besides maybe Arnold if he was in too much a stupor to drive himself home.

He chuckled, "I guess so," he looked to the bar, and I followed him, to find Arnold had abandoned our game in favor of two beautiful biker girls, who were all over him, looking for his pockets which ran deep for pretty girls at Rusty's. I saw my Coors, sitting alone on the counter, chilled and waiting for me. The stranger continued, "Looks like your opponent has taken to a new game." I looked down and nodded, chuckling.

"Not unlike Arnold," I sighed, setting my cue on the table. I reached for the cue ball and wrapped my fingers around the smooth object. Pulling it from the table, I turned it over in my hands, "He usually gets lost in games."

"I'm sure," the stranger said. His eyes were dark, but stricken with a youthfulness his body must not have realized. He was a dangerous guy, I could tell, and I remembered him—the silver highlighted guy who was at Rusty's most every day at the bar, picking up ladies. Yes, I remembered his face. Rina and Marg had pointed him out a couple of times and warned me to keep my distance. He seemed nice enough now, I assumed, but guys were only nice until they got what they wanted. "You got a name, sweetheart?" He changed the subject entirely.

_Uh oh, here it comes. _I chuckled, plucking balls up front the table top and sending them rolling into the pockets where they'd collect for the next players. I looked to the haven of my barstool, waiting patiently for me, and I smiled, giving my attention back down to the game table. He walked the other side, until we met up at the end. He quickly snatched the 8 from the table top and I followed it, him now rolling it through is hands haughtily, as if he'd just won. I thought of what to say, and noticed that the two dart-players had seated themselves at the table, watching us. The _entire table _was watching me, waiting for my next move. I looked at this guy and stared into his eyes long enough to get a reading from him, but not be uncomfortable.

I saw the sultry stare of an accomplished player; of a man who had no intention of settling in an settling down, a lone ranger on the prowl for his next maiden in distress. These types of men were not uncommon in Rusty's—men on the lookout for girls to get their next joyride from, to use them and abuse them. It was written all over his face, his pride, his—"I'm good and I know it" attitude, which I immediately despised. I bit my lower lip and reached for his hand, wrapping my fingers around the 8 ball and tipping my head to its side. I said quietly,

"I don't give my name out to strangers," I smiled at him and gently tugged the ball from his hand. His expression changed, almost dropped, and for a moment I wondered if he'd ever been halted in his advances before, or if all women were enchanted by his game. I got my answer when I shifted his weight, and I saw out of the corner of my eye his table-mates, who were stifling laughter and swatting one another on the arm good-naturedly. "Sorry to disappoint." I turned on my heel and slammed the cue ball on the table, it cracking loudly above the music and drawing the attention of some others. It shut his buddies up, that was for sure.

I abandoned the pool table, made my way to the bar and plucked my Coors up. Taking a drawl, I made my way to my stool, where Rina was already waiting with a drink of her own behind the counter. He watched me, obviously defeated and a bit perplexed, before walking back to his table where he was met with smiles, winks, and probably a few jabs. Bar life continued as the next song played on, and Rina patted my hand as I slid into the stool.

"Atta girl," she winked at me, "That'll show 'em." She took a draw on her Miller and turned to the next customer who had waved her down. She sauntered away, towel on her shoulder, and I looked to the corner again, where the stranger and a few other of his friends still stared. I went back to my Coors, and relished in the alone time for only a few brief moments before my next challenge slid himself into the stool next to mine.

"I figured he was a bit old for you," he said, smiling. He was tall, around six foot two, weighing in at what I guessed was at least 300 pounds—of nothing but rippling muscle and tattoos. He was bald entirely, with a clean shaven face, and had strong hands. He had on a black button down shirt, which read "Jake" above a breast pocket, and had thick riding boots and chaps on. My gaze washed over him and I felt slightly like a mouse—something that didn't happen to an ex-army girl who was built thick.

"Maybe," I said, getting up the nerve to at least talk to him. This guy was huge, and he'd be tough to handle in any situation—I immediately noted I'd have to set him down more gently than I had the other, silver haired guy. I swallowed a drink of my Coors and then looked back to him, "But then again I like a man with experience."

He laughed, "Then you're gunna love me." He stood from his stool now and extended a hand to me with a thrust of it. If he was trying to be gentile, it wasn't working, but instead intimidated and somewhat frightened me. I suddenly realized if he fell on me I'd probably die. I wasn't sure entirely what he was getting at, so I looked at his hand and raised my brows. When he didn't say anything I did,

"So…?"

"So do you dance, or do pretty girls like you just sit and drink Coors all Friday night?" I raised my brows at his lack of subtly. Setting my Coors on the bar top, I turned in my chair and crossed my legs, leaning back against the wall littered with pictures and posters and Beer memorabilia, and chuckled. He lowered his hands immediately.

"Girls like me don't dance with guys like you," I looked down and tucked a fallen curl behind me ear, "Actually, girls like me don't dance at all."

He wasn't biting, but took a step closer instead. I smelled a mixture of gas, smoke, and brandy on his breath, and immediately I knew he'd had one drink too many. I wriggled in my stool, closer to the bar, and he inched closer. Now, I dropped a leg off the stool and stood now, the other resting against the foot rest of the stool, my hand on the bar to stable me, not keep me somewhat composed.

"Well then maybe girls like you just get straight to the action." My brows rose at his innuendo, and without thinking, I shoved him away from me and stepped by him, about to make my way into the kitchen, where Rina and Marg usually allowed me to retreat if the evening wasn't going as planned.

"Back off, you disgusting pig!" I hollered at him, him stumbling into my stool which I'd abandoned. He immediately collected himself and turned to face me, now obviously upset that I'd stepped on his testosterone. I backed up a few steps from him, towards the middle of two tables which were dirty and vacated as people had come and gone, until the edge of one pressed against the back of my thighs. This Jake character approached me, and my hands pressed against the table top before me. A few guys from the bar hurried out of their seats and made their way over, ever so carefully as to not cause a scene, and I saw the guys from the back table who'd been watching me get up abruptly. "Don't even think about it," I warned him, "or you'll regret it."

"Why you little whore," he taunted, "You think you can just turn me down like I'm nothing? Well, I'll show you what happens to girls like you who turn guys like me down on the first night." In a quick instant he lunged towards me, and I spun away from the table, snatching an empty BudLite bottle as I did. He rammed right into the table, sending it keeling over, him fighting chairs to stand straight and get his bearings.

The bar instantly erupted into a squall of jibes and taunts and hollars, as men gathered around us as if we were entertainment. Rina and Marg hustled behind the bar to get their bats, as they usually did, but I quickly shook my head no. Guys like this needed dealt a special hand, and I was just the dealer. I looked to the drunken men around me, hollering for this man to get to his feet, others screaming at me to get out while I was still able. It was all such a blur as the music continued to blare. I looked towards the door, where my bike was waiting just outside to take me away from all this madness.

"Oh, so now you wanna play?" Jake stood tall now, turning to face me. I held the bottle behind my back, waiting for the right moment, side stepping carefully around the overturned table. He followed, his form absolutely hulking. I probably couldn't take him hand-to-hand, but I could shake him up a bit first before getting a few blows in. "Well, then, whore, let's play." He motioed me to come at him.

I shrugged my shoulders at him, "You should've just offered to buy me a drink," I chuckled, "It would've been a lot simpler."

He snorted, "Maybe I don't like simple."

I chuckled, "You will now."

In an instant, I hurled the bottle at him, and it collided with his face, shattering on impact and sending him staggering a few steps backward. He hollered, swiping at the blood now trickling from his nose and a nice gash above his eye. I ran towards the table, pivoted on my left foot and brought my right leg around, where my boot collided with the table and sent it skidding across the floor. It rammed straight into Jake's legs, sending him to the floor. I shoved aside the table roughly as he attempted to stand. Instead, I pulled back and hammered my fist into his jaw, and this time he went forward, his chin crashing into the floor as he moaned. The crowd around us get dead quiet as I rolled Jake onto his back with my foot and straddled him. Reaching into my boot, I pulled out my knife and ran it between his pecks.

"If I ever see you back here again I swear to God I'll carve your heart out right here on this floor. Got it?"

He frowned, nostrils flaring, "Yeah. I got it." I stood and swung my leg over his body, letting the knife slide back into the boot along his leg. Nodding to Rina and Marg, I turned and the wall of onlookers parted for me, allowing me through. I passed by Silver Hair and his group of table mates, and headed straight for the door, plucking my coat and helmet from the peg by the door where they rested every Friday night for me, as usual.

I kicked the door closed behind me.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**. . .**

The door jarred back into the frame, the woman gone.

Barney stopped mid-drink, the Miller inches from his lips, watching the door. Perplexed, but slightly baffled, he looked to Tool, who was gaping; boots propped up on the table amid the empty bottles and tequila glasses. Christmas took a drawl on a cigar and shot Toll a look, and Gunnar was shaking his head with Hale and muttering something about nice legs, before Toll and Hale got up and started another game of darts.

"Well I'll be screwed," Christmas raised his glass partially and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, "Warrior Goddess reincarnated. And I thought Maggie was good." He whistled low, "Nice legs, for a heavier chick." He stopped mid-drink when Gunnar gave him a look. "What's that look on your ugly mug for?"

The Swede stopped examining his prized blade and gave Lee a look. "In my country heavier women are a sign of wealth and prosperity," he leaned forward, pointing a well ringed finger at him, "And you just insulted one heckuva woman."

Barney ignored their usual banter, still watching the door before Tool slugged him in the shoulder lightly, drawing him back. Shooting one last look to the door he gave his full attention to Tool, situating himself in the chair and finally drinking his Miller. "You okay there, man? Too much woman to handle?"

"Pfft," Barney rumbled, "You only wish. She obviously was a bit much for you too there, slick." He set the now empty bottle on the table next to the other two and Christmas laughed over-dramatically, setting his half drunk Heineken next to the other three empty ones. Tool bit his lower lip, dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, pride obviously wounded. "I still got it if I wanted it."

This made Christmas burst out, "Oh ho, do you now?"He gave Barney a disbelieving look and waved the idea away, "An old dog like you ain't got anything a woman like _that _would even consider." He jerked a thumb behind him, where the victim of the woman's outburst was staggering to his feet, "If Muscles there didn't have it, you surely don't either, Barn." The group chuckled at this and Barney rolled his eyes at them, looking to the door again. He heard the sound of a bike roar to life, rev to action, and pull out of the lot with a squeal. He could smell the exhaust from the half-open window behind them.

Christmas and Gunnar got up from their seats and headed to the pool table, talking about a two-on-two match for fifty bucks and who was the better shot. Gunnar, mostly drunk, staggered over and dropped his blade into his boot, Barney shaking his head and chuckling at the sight of the big Swede trying to stand, much less formulate a strategic shot. Tool, still beside him, let out a sigh and again propped his feet back up on the table. Barney leaned forward, put his elbows on the tabletop, and shot Tool a look.

"Gettin' tired, old man?"

Tool wrinkled his brow and then raised one, "Old man? Speak for yourself, Dracula. Some of us actually sleep at night and enjoy it." Barney let out a deep chuckle and nodded in agreement; they both knew he didn't sleep. Tool had a point. Barney gave him a smile and sat back in his chair slowly as the blonde came over to their table, looking mad and slightly frazzled. Pushing the empty Miller away from him, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave Rina a smile.

"You two want another round or what?" She sounded agitated. By the look in her eye, Barney knew she was mad, and she glanced over her shoulder where two men helped a staggering "Jake" towards the door. Another was on the phone, probably calling a cab for the man who had a bar rag pressed to his face. "Serves him right," she mumbled to herself.

"He's bleeding pretty good,' Tool observed, "He'll probably need some stitches. It'll live a nasty looking scar over his eye."

Rina scowled, ringing the bar rag through her hands, "A nasty scar for a nasty guy," she shook her head, "Never did like Jake. He's worse than you are, Tool," she gestured to the empty bottles, Tool smiling at her and giving her a wink. Barney snorted and just shook his head as the Jukebox switched songs, "You want another or what?"

"Yeah, I'll have another," Tool sat back in his chair, rocking it back on two legs, "As long as you make it with tender loving care, Rina, I'll have four more." He swatted Barney in the upper arm and Barney raised his brows, shooting a look to Rina who snorted and rolled her eyes.

"You wouldn't get tender loving care from a dog even if you asked for it," She spit back, "I'll take it you want another one too, Barney?" She picked up the empty bottled by their necks and gave him a look, "I don't got all night, Ross."

He looked to the door again, then grabbed the last two bottles and got up from his chair. He nodded to the bar and Rina took off, weaving in between pushed out and abandoned chairs. Barney took a second to watch the Jake character limp towards the door. He smirked, and the man scowled at him before exiting. Rina rounded the bar where Marg was polishing shot glasses. The older woman smiled at him as he slipped onto one of the empty barstools and set the bottles down.

"Hiya Barney," she chirped, "How's it going?"

He shrugged a shoulder and gave her a half smile, "Not bad. The entertainment was...unexpected." A couple of the regular boys were putting up the chairs and rearranging the table, another was picking up glass shards, "Who was she anyway?"

Rina and Marg shared a look and Rina left with Tools Miller. Marg set the shot glass down in front of him and grabbed a bottle of Herradura, pooring him some, "Why so curious?"

He shrugged a shoulder, "I dunno. She seemed interesting. You know I'm always lookin' for someone who can hold their own." Before he could reach for the shot she plucked it up from before him and downed it without evening a second thought. He blinked at her, surprised, and she shifted her weight on her feet. She looked at him and then towards her counter of mixes and sighed.

"She'd kill me."

He snorted, "Would she?" That seemed like an interesting statement, one he could tell was an exaggeration. She chuckled and slapped her bar towel on the counter next to him, when Christmas erupted in a victorious holler behind him. She shook her head.

"Yes, in more or less words," she scratched behind her neck where her fallen bun was hanging limp, "Name's Rue Hunter. She lives on Fifth and Shatter, in the apartments. Ex-military. She comes down here every Friday and Saturday night, helps out in the kitchen or at the bar, whatever. Plays pool with Arnie," she chuckled, "nothing that you regular boys don't do. Roughhouses the guys who get to close. Tool's lucky she was in a flirty mood, or he'd been busted up too."

Barney doubted the latter but took in the former. The look on Marg's face told him she was serious. She nodded and rapped his knuckles against the counter top, slipping off the barstool. He checked the neon clock over the bar and saw it was after eleven already, and he had a meeting with Church tomorrow at the Boardwalk. Slipping a couple of twenties out of his pocket, he flicked it between his fingers and gestured it to Marg. She waved it off and smiled at him, "Just keep yourself alive, Barney. God knows if you die this place will close up." Considering he owned the place, she was right.

"I do my best. You have a good night, Marg," he leaned over the bar and kissed her on the cheek, "You want me to stay and see you home?"

"Have I ever said yes?" She frowned at him, "I may be an old woman, Barney Ross, but I sure as heck can handle myself. Besides, wouldn't want anyone to think Barney Ross was getting soft." She winked at him and flicked off the lights above the bar, obviously ready to call it an early evening. She then added, "Thanks anyway, hon."

He rapped his knuckles again and started towards the table, where the boys were getting up and stretching. Gunnar looked seriously hammered, and Tool was finishing off the last of his last drink, talking with Rina, who was rolling her eyes. Barney clapped a hand on Tool's shoulder and dragged him back half a step, "She's too good for you, Tool." He winked at Rina, "Let's get out of here." Christmas and Toll helped Gunnar out the door, where Hale snagged his bike keys and stuck them in his own pocket.

Tool spit at him, "There isn't any woman too good for me," he winked back at Rina, "I'll be back, sweetheart. Come see me and we'll do a pretty number on your shoulder, something original, eh?"

She snorted, "The day I let you ink me up is the day I go six feet under, Tool." Barney shook his head, winced jokingly, and raised a hand to her in a goodbye, "See ya later, Barney."

"Yep. Night, ladies." He shut the door behind them, turning to see Toll and Gunnar doubling up. Tool was already seated on his own ride, and Christmas revved the engine on his speed bike, already clicking his helmet into place. They said their goodnights and all left for their separate directions, and Barney slid onto his chopper and kicked it to life. With a rev of the grip to start the horses running, he shrugged on his jacket and slipped his helmet on, not bothering to buckle it. Guiding his bike out of the parking spot, he looked both directions and decided on south. Fifth and Shatter wasn't too far from Tool's shop, or the hangar.

He needed to check the plane anyway.

**. . .**

The apartment complex was dark, signaling that the tenants had already turned in for the night. The kitchen light to my apartment was blaring against a dark night already, showing through the French doors leading to the balcony to the east. I parked by bike, after a run around the neighboorhood, and grabbed the keys from the ignition. Swinging my legs over the seat, I took off my helmet and let my massive heap of curls spring out in any direction as the breeze of the evening tousled them in its own way.

I headed up the walk to the main door, punched in my code, and stopped. There was the chugging of a bike, and headlights to match, coming from the street. I looked over my shoulder and stepped off the stairs, looking around apartment 6's minivan to see the form of a chopper sitting along the curb. The engine cut, the lights went out, but the figure didn't move. I watched him for a moment, just sitting there, and was satisfied when he didn't get off his ride. Shrugging a shoulder, I punched in my code again and slugged open the door, making my way across the lobby to the staircase, my boots heavy in the quiet.

I took the stairs slowly, and realized my hand was pounding. I stopped and noticed the source; a nice gash had embedded itself in my wrist, probably from broken glass, and was dripping. I sighed, decided I'd clean it in the morning, and lowered the sleeve of my flannel button down over the wound and pressed my fingers into it. The fabric seeped with blood as I made my way down the hall and stopped at my apartment. I managed to get it open and flick on the kitchen light.

There was chatteirng on the wood floors of the kitchen as my German Sheppard, Ruger, came around the corner. He perked his ears at me and I smiled, crouching down to welcome him. He trotted over, seated himself by my side, and allowed me to stroke his head, not before sniffing down my arm to my injury, where he licked it carefully, as if telling me that needed attention first. I patted his head and stood, kicking the door closed behind me, and retrieved a dishrag. I took some chunks of ice from the freezer and set to numbing my wrist, heading into the bathroom.

I prepared the supplies; peroxide, a sterile needle, nylon, and some gauze. I ran some hot water in the bath and dropped some lavender and lilac scrub into the steaming water before seating myself on the toilet. I sat there for about twenty minutes, watching the tub fill, until I could no longer feel my wrist or my fingers. Setting the ice in the sink, I began the nagging process of sewing up my wrist, pausing only to turn off the water to the tub.

It took me about ten minutes to stitch up five or six stitches, and I just let the bloodied and dirty supplies sit about the bathroom as I shed my clothes. I sat in the bath, careful to keep the stitches dry and above water, and let the steam take over my senses and begin to loosen my nerves. I dunked under, my hair sagging from the water as I came back up, and I looked to the door where Ruger was laying, patiently watching the rest of the apartment.

I found my way to bed an hour later, not bothering to change out of my robe, and slept.


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: **_Okay...almost 300 views into this story! I'm kind of honored, since there's only 152 stories in this genre. I'm glad you're enjoying it so far! So, to further conceptualize that enjoyment, please leave some reviews! Does everyone realize here that with 300 viewers, I could have 300 reviews if everyone just left a "Loved it!" or another comment? I love review traffic...please let me know what you think. It helps me develop characters without thinking "Is this really worth my time?". I mean, don't get me wrong, Barney Ross is ALWAYS worth my time..._

_Also, please be aware of the disclaimer on my page about profanity. Note that the disclaimer there applies to my story content as well. There will be no profanity in this story whatsoever. I believe the Expendables can sport conversation or vent their frustrations on one another in a wholesome, reader-friendly way (besides, one can say strong things without the use of swear-words). As you hint from this chapter, Rue will be dealing with this in short order. This is a personal prejudice, so be aware. I refuse to apologize for it, so leave whatever comments you desire. Note that defamation of character (even online!) is still a crime._

_Anyway, thanks again! Looking forward to this! _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

_Bark! Bark! BARK!_

My body jolted awake by the sudden intrusion into the darkened peace I'd fallen into after my shower. I directly sat up, and stared at Ruger, who was yapping in my bedroom doorway towards the living room. In the distance, I heard the ringtone to my cell phone, and I scrambled off the queen-sized bed and cleared the dog, running down the hallway until I snagged the Galaxy from the kitchen countertop, knocking a knife into the sink. It clambered against the porcelain loudly as I answered the phone.

"Hello?" I questioned, everything happening far too early this morning. I leaned against the counter, crossed my legs at the ankles, and ran my hand through my now dried mess of hair. I mumbled under my breath about not tying it up before bed and having to wet it down again this morning.

"_Good morning, sunshine,"_ came the familiar chirp of Riggs, my mechanic and close friend. He was 52 and owned his own shop a few blocks away. I kept books for him-thanks to a four year degree-and balanced his checkbook, among other things, and doodled with decals on reject bikes or other projects. He'd been a friend in the military, and was honorably discharged shortly before I was. We had discovered we occupied the same street in LA during boot camp. Riggs was like second father to me.

I yawned, "It's-" I checked the stove-clock, "7AM, Riggs. What are you thinking being up this early?" I reached over and grabbed my coffee pot and began filling it with water, "Did someone die or something?"

He laughed, "_No, no, Sleeping Beauty, no one's dead. I just got this new project I thought you'd want to check out. A nice chopper with all the bells and whistles." _There was a sharp clatter on his end, and he hissed, "_Blast these freakin'-I thought I told them to clean up when they're off?" _I giggled at this and he came back, "_Sorry about that, Ruthie. You wanna come down and run some papers on this and run me some parts?" _

I nodded, as if he could see me, "Yeah, sure. Give me an hour."

"_Atta girl, Ruthie. See ya in an hour."_

_ "_Bye." I ended the call and slid the phone down the counter where it came to a rest before the microwave, pouring the water into my coffee machine. Once filling it with my favorite blend, I hit the brew button and trudged into the bathroom to rewet my hair. Once I wet it and applied some coconut smelling product to it, I set to getting dressed. The usual dark-wash jeans with white lace pockets and stitching, a white tank-top underneath an old, khaki safari vest which I used for everyday wear, and finally, Cowboy boots, ballcap, and today's choice of contacts instead of glasses, I headed into the kitchen were Ruger was guarding the coffee machine and the sink.

I poured a cup, grabbed my journal from on top the fridge, and sat down on the floor in the living room, facing the French doors which showed a beautiful morning sunrise. I jotted down a few quick prayers, thanked God for living breath and life, and closed it. Tossing the pen on the coffee table, I chugged the last of my coffee, poured myself a to-go mug, and slung my purse over my shoulder. Grabbing my keys and helmet, I blew Ruger a kiss, asked him to watch the apartment, and was gone.

**. . .**

"What do you mean you _wrecked _it?" Toll asked, pausing only to take a drink of his black coffee. He then set the mug down roughly, causing coffee to spill over the side and onto the counter, resulting in an equally disbelieving look at Tool. "You _wrecked _your bike?"

Tool frowned at him, obviously hung over, "_I _didn't wreck it. Somebody side-swiped it."

Hale made a face, "Can you even sideswipe a bike?"

"Oh yes you can," Yang chimed in, leaning heavily over the railing to the stairs which led above the shop to the dorms upstairs, "I saw it once in Shanghai. You drive too close and the front fender catches the chopper's tire and _WHAM! _you've been sideswiped." Hale raised his brows at the little man, then shook it as if he couldn't believe it. Toll rubbed the bridge of his nose, disgusted.

"And let me guess, you didn't get a good look at the guy?"

Tool smiled and shrugged a shoulder, "No, but I did get a _really _nice look at the girl."

"No one's doubting you there, Toolbox." Christmas slammed the door to the shop and tossed his leather bike jacket over his shoulder, sliding his sunglasses up on his shaved head. Tool dropped his feet from the bike he'd been resting them on and stood, obviously offended. "Calm your tits, Tool. I was kidding."

"Didn't sound like you were, _mate._" He stressed the noun, trying to prove a point to the U.K. immigrant. Christmas slung his jacket over the handle of a bike and gave Tool a sour look, then jerked a thumb in the man's direction, giving Toll a perplexed and slightly amused stare.

""What crawled up 'is rear-end?"

Toll shrugged, putting his hands up in mock surrender, "Hung over." He mouthed. Tool had already staggered over to his tattoo chair and grabbed an ink pen and a piece of canvas and began scribbling away. Christmas took it upon himself to look inside the fridge, grabbed some type of protein drink, and began to down it. Hale was sharpening his neon 'CEASAR' knife, and Toll was still working on coffee. Yang was putting away tools from last night.

"Barney around?"` Christmas asked, looking at the label of the drink. Toll shrugged, Hale didn't say anything, and Yang just looked at him and shook his head. Obviously he wasn't around, and Christmas guessed Ross was at the plane, like he usually was on Friday nights. It was Saturday now, well into the morning, and Barney usually had arranged some type of exercise for them to do.

Hale finally piped up, "He was at the plane last night, but I think he was going to have a look at Tool's bike. Gunna see if it was worth fixin' or not."

"Isn't it here?" Christmas, having already been informed on the wreck by a text from Yang, asked. He checked around the bike shop, found nothing but the usual half-finished paint-jobs and tune-ups. No newly wrecked rides here.

"No, it ain't here," Tool snapped from his tattoo chair, "Towing company towed it over to someone called _Riggs' Rides,_ a bike shop down off Fifth and Shatter. Said insurance would fix it there, no problems," he huffed, "One extra scratch on her and I'll wring the scrawny mother's neck."

"Calm down," Christmas sneered at him from behind his back, "Barney'll have a looksie and see if she's worth fixing or not. He's a good judge of-"

"-character's what you were gunna say, right, Christmas?"

Barney's baritone rang off the empty spaces of the shop clearly, obviously coming from the rear exit. He approached from the shadows, still in last-night's clothes, shades pulled up onto his head. He looked exhausted, like he'd been up all night with a few more beers than he probably needed, which wasn't unusual-for Barney. He slid his keys onto the table, set his riding jacket over the back of a chair, and sank into one of them, smirking at Christmas. Christmas smiled at him and raised his protein drink in a mock greeting, "Whatever you say."

"That was mine," Barney pointed at it, stating matter-of-factly. He let his hand slap onto his knee and he sighed, "Nothing's sacred," he muttered. Toll snorted and Yang shook his head and Hale just snickered behind him. Tool said nothing, but continued scribbling on his canvas piece. "You owe me four bucks for that."

"In your dreams,"

"I don't dream." Barney smiled at that and shook his head at Christmas, "You wanna come with me to take a look at Tool's bike? They open at 11." He checked his overly sized watch and stood up. Christmas smiled, tossed the drink bottle into the trashcan, and nodded.

"And miss a chance at you further ripping apart Tool's dignity?" This made Toll snort and Yang just shook his head, "Not a chance."

"Touch my ride and I'll cut off all the protruding parts of your anatomy." Tool pointed an inkpen at the two of them and gestured between them, "And I'm not talking arms and legs."

"Just work on walking up the stairs for now, Tool," Barney gave him a look, "You can't even add two plus two together if you tried." This sent the group into a snickering fit, and Barney sauntered over to the fridge. He glared to prove a point to Christmas and grabbed a bottled water from the door instead. He took a long drink, spotted the time on his watch, and screwed the lid back onto the plastic bottle. Christmas was shrugging into his riding jacket when Barney retrieved his own and pulled his aviator's from on top his head over his eyes again.

"I swear, one day I'm going to accidentally screw up on that tattoo of ours," Tool uttered from across the room, staggering to stand, leaning heavily on the chair, "and then you'll be _really _hot."

"No, and then you'll drop to the floor because I'll have broken your fat neck." Barney thrust a finger in his direction, "Lay off, Tool. I'm doing you a favor."

"Never asked you for a favor," Tool snorted.

Barney threw his hand in the air to keep things dynamic, made a snarky face like the Godfather, and slung his jacket over his shoulder. "I'll see what I can do about the bike, a'right? It's not like I'm going to kill your firstborn here."

"Might as well be," Toll chipped in. Barney shot him a look, pointed, and Toll shrugged a shoulder. Hale just waved them off and Yang rounded the corner into the weight-room. Christmas shoved his hands into his jacket pocket, and sauntered out the door, Barney not far behind.

They mounted their bikes and Christmas was the first to take off, but stopped a few blocks for Barney's chopper to take the lead. He just shook his head at the Brit, who revved his engine and gave Barney the "rock on" hand in jest. Barney just snorted, gunned forward, and led them to the garage. It wasn't far, and was dead when they got there, only a bike, a truck, and a few other cars sitting out front-belonging, obviously, to the crew inside the building; evident by the open garage stalls and swarming group of mechanics.

Dismounting, they left their bikes and helmets and made their way into the office of the shop-the building was only slightly ran-down, as were some of the San Francisco buildings which were older. A bell on the door chimed, announcing their entrance, and Christmas brushed past him to the TV, where a game was on. The man stood before it, hands in pockets, numb.

Barney, on the other hand, had stopped dead.

There behind the desk was the very same woman from his bar, last night, who had drop-kicked the table expertly. A hundred different questions ran circles through his brain, but the first was:,_what in the heck am I so worked up for?, _followed by a quick recap of her actions. She was intriguing, for sure, and not without skill. This woman might be someone he'd need to know-just to know, in case.

She looked different than last night-her hair was pulled back into a ballcap, a curly bun out the back, with some type of khaki-colored vest over a white-tank top. He thought he could spot a silver ballchain, and was awarded his answer when she looked up and he could see dogtags. That explained her experience-military.

He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and realized she was staring at him expectantly. He approached the counter, shaking himself off, and rested an arm on top of the counter and leaned onto it-a normal action for him. She clicked a few times on the computer mouse and then grabbed a pen, as well as a StickyNote, and then smiled at him. "Hi." Was all she said.

"Hi," he replied back, Christmas still glued to the TV across the office, "I'm here to look at a bike. It was brought in this morning." He rapped his knuckles against the counter, "A custom Harley chopper."

She nodded, "Yeah, the chopper with the front end screwed up?" She scribbled a few things and then reached under the counter, in his direction, and revealed Tool's keys, "Sure. Obviously we couldn't drive it so we had to load it with a towtruck into the shop and onto the lift. They're lookin' it over now." She pushed her chair back, stood, and grabbed the cordless phone. Slipping it into her back jean's pocket, she waved him to come down the hallway towards the garage, "I'll show it to you."

He nodded, and Christmas tore himself away from the TV, and jabbed Barney in the side, shaking his head, "Stupid 49er's lost a..." He stopped when she opened the door for them and said something to the mechanics standing in the doorway, and he pointed at her, "...that's the chick from the bar."

"Yeah, small world." Barney uttered. Christmas looked utterly confused and allowed Barney to take the lead, Christmas muttering under his breath about coincidences. They entered the shop and she closed the door behind them, brushed shoulders with Barney accidentally and gestured for them to come. He followed as they made their way across the shop, drawing the attention of the mechanics. He stopped when a figure erupted from between two classic trucks, spray gun at hand, covered in a misting of purple and orange. A woman, he noticed by her curves and the unashamed exposure of her cleavage, stopped the secretary and started to ask questions. Christmas' brows rose as he came up beside him and he rubbed his jaws.

"Moments like this I wish I was single," he uttered, then smiled, "oh, that's right; I am, aren't I?"

Barney shook his head, "That is someone you don't need to be involved with," she was utterly ridiculous-she looked like Harley Quinn from the old Batman comics, bleach-blonde hair pulled into high-tails. Every inch of her (well, whatever skin wasn't covered anyway), was legitimately forced into some type of skin-tight leather. Every curve was extenuated; so many of them, in fact, Barney was almost dizzy trying to follow them all. Christmas looked awed, "She looks like freakin' hussy, Christmas." He was thankful when a grinder started up to cover his comment.

"Yeah, so does Minnie Mouse when you haven't been laid in as long as you have." Barney shot a sharp look at the man-if looks could kill, Lee Christmas would've dropped dead. He grinned at him, "The truth is a very painful thing my friend."

"So is my fist in your face." He warned.

Suddenly Harley Quinn disappeared and the woman was waving them forward, stepping over a small toolbox with everything laying around it instead of inside it. They followed, taking a few more steps, before she swerved off in between two more lifts, each bearing bikes. She stood before one of them, engaged in conversation briefly with the mechanic, until they both met up with Barney and Christmas in between the two lifts. The mechanic extended a hand, clothed in traditional mechanic cover-alls complete with a towel tossed over his shoulder, and introduced himself. "You must be Barney Ross," he confirmed, "Buck Riggs. We talked earlier."

"We did," Barney shook the man's hand, then gestured to Christmas, "Lee Christmas, a friend. What's the word on the bike?"

Buck ducked under the lift and Barney glanced at the girl, who was standing slightly behind the group now, arms crossed over her chest. She examined the bike from her place, looking up, as Buck began his monologue on the damage. Barney was still trying to piece together the night before when Christmas jabbed him in the ribs again, "Ross, the man asked a question."

"Sorry." He walked under the lift, minding his heading, "What's the question?"

Buck gave him a half smile, Christmas joining them. The girl clapped a hand on the shoulder of another mechanic before making her way back towards the office, all three of them watching her vanish out the door they'd come in. The man caught on, "She's somethin', ain't she?" He chuckled, "If I was 20 years younger, I tell you, Rue would be my type of girl. Still is my type of girl, just I'm not that kinda guy." He shook his head and continued, "Now, about the lift..."

Barney did the math. Buck looked like he was in his late forties early fifties maybe, so that put the girl around thirty. Not bad for what he assumed was ex-military; that left her with enough experience to not be stupid but with enough youth to be effective...among other things. Barney shoved the idea outside his mind and decided he'd talk to Rina about her later. Rue. Interesting.

'For God sakes Barney, answer the man," Christmas growled in his ear a moment later, "What's got you so flighty?"

Barney didn't even want to begin to answer that question, and growled back, "Nothing, not shut up." They moved around the bike to follow Buck as he continued his diagnosis on Tool's bike.

_Just nothing. _


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

After managing to get through the shop easily without attention, I crossed the threshold back into the office and kicked the door closed behind me. I fell against it, rested my head on the solid wood, and exhaled. I couldn't believe it...the guys from the bar, here at the shop...looking at a bike. I closed my eyes, and puffed out an exaggerated breath, reasoning that God was funny and it was just a bad day gone worse.

I seated myself behind the desk and began signing some shipment forms. I thought about last night unexpectantly and considered my actions: had I been too brash? Was I showing off? Had I blown my "alias" and revealed my previous military history? Considering the dogtags which tinked together as I moved, I doubted it, but at the same time, lots of people wore dogtags. I closed my eyes and poised my pen over a shipment for a radiator on a '81 Chevy.

I considered the two characters-both looking like dangerous guys with a vendetta against life. The one was younger, maybe in his late thirties, the other mid-forties, maybe fifties. Both sported strong, thick builds, and I reasoned they were body builders, but perhaps they were more than that, because they were dark men, with a dark style-I mean, tattooed and dressed to the hilt like men ready for a war. I doubted they knew I was aware they were packing-the younger man had a bowie knife to his right, indicating he threw with his left hand (or he was ambidextrous), and the other character packed a Beretta 92FS to his left-indicating a right handed shooter. Apparently these guys were either unashamed of their blatant display of weapons, or that they didn't care, or that they simple were unaware.

The one, though, had been staring. He had recognized me from the bar, without a doubt. He'd seen me and knew what I was capable of. Perhaps that was what had me slightly unnerved, the fact that such an individual recognized my abilities. That didn't happen every day, after all, and it certainly didn't remain unannounced. And, by the look on his face, he respected my abilities, and knew better than to pull any fast ones. But, when I had stared back was what was interesting-the man didn't move, or flinch, or indicate any uneasiness. He sported dark brown eyes, eyes filled with experience, life, and coldness, but other a character that understood and knew hard times. He was a child of hard knocks, and he wasn't ashamed of it.

I made copies of my papers and filed them away, placed a few more orders, and answered two calls. Only when Riggs opened the door and it hammered against the wall did I know he was back with the two men. Sure enough, as I swiveled my chair, Riggs came around to the front of the counter and slapped a work order in front of me. He leaned against the counter and grinned. I began flipping through the file, found the parts order, and mentally listed off the motorcycle pieces. The file sported the estimate, circled with a blue ink pen, which read $6,321.75. Six grand? I looked up first at Riggs, and then the older man to his right, who had obviously authorized the project; the giveaway was the blue pen behind his ear.

"Get me those parts from Felix, Rue, he's got the best quality. Try to get them here today. He should have what I need." He slapped the counter in front of me and smiled, looking to the two men first, "Rue's the best there is at sweet-talkin'. If there's anyone who can get your parts in today, it'd be Rue." The younger man shrugged a shoulder, dipping his hands into his jacket pockets.

The older one nodded and extended a hand for Riggs to shake. "'Preciate it. Thanks." He then looked to me and dipped his head, as if to acknowledge me as actually having been a part of the conversation. But, the look in his eyes told me he remembered who I was. Riggs shook his hand and nodded to them, then went back into the shop. The younger, balding man slipped on his sunglasses and put a hand on his friend's shoulder, gesturing with his head to the door. He left, and the man leaned against the counter.

He slipped the sunglasses from on top his head and held them in his hand-a sharp pair of what looked like Ray Ben aviator's. "You recognize me, don't you?" The question startled me, and I abruptly dropped the Sharpie marker I'd been pretending to be busy with. I'd actually been doodling on a StickyNote, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Maybe," I said. I gave him a once over and then swiveled in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, "but I think the underlying question is do you recognize me?"

He nodded slowly, in confirmation, "Yes I do," he slipped on his sunglasses, "You were at the bar last night. You shut down one of my buddies pretty quick, bruised up another jaggoff. Had Rina and Marg all ruffled up." He referred to the bartenders I socialized with, "You had a pretty firm handle on the situation. I'd assume the ranks taught you that one."

I absentmindedly reached up for my dogtags, "Pretty much a giveaway, but good guess. I was formally educated by the Rangers. Good eye." I stood and extended and extended a hand to him, "Rue Hunter."

He nodded, made an impressed "not-too-bad" face, "You pick up a few things here and there." He reached over the counter and took my hand, but I initiated the shake, "Barney Ross. Nice to meet you."

"You too," I released his hand and grabbed the file off the countertop, "Rina and Marg mad about the table?"

He shrugged, "They were more impressed than anything. I'm just glad you didn't bust it up." This was a peculiar question, and he rapped his knuckles on the counter and turned away from me. He nodded, "You bounced before?"

"Professionally? No," I asked.

He nodded, "Is there any other way?" he stepped towards the door, hands in pockets now, "I'm always lookin' for someone who can bounce decently without racking the place up. The weekends are pretty rough, but it's decent money."

I wrinkled my nose at him. Finally, it clicked into place: he was offering me a job at Rusty's? _My _Rusty's? With Rina and Marg and the cooks? I blinked at him, unsure of what to say or do; I'd only just met the man and he was giving me a job? "Is this some type of joke?" I'd vocalized it before I'd even fully finished thinking it.

He shrugged a shoulder, holding the door open with a strong, thick arm. "Unless you turned it into one, no." He smiled a half-smile at me. "Don't look so surprised."

I straightened up and wiped the look on my face as soon as he'd said it, "Forgive me. but, uh...you only just met me, and-"

"I have a pretty decent knack for summing people up," he interjected, a deep baritone that hinted at a New York upbringing. His dark hair matched the mirror finish on his glasses, "and I've already got a pretty good idea about you."

I was stunned, but managed, "I wouldn't feel right-"

"-you're right, you wouldn't," he chuckled, "I wouldn't either. Drop by the bar today around two. I'll be there and we can sit down and discuss your responsibilities-and see what else you've got." He stepped out the door, "Thanks for taking care of the bike."

I nodded, "Sure, no problem."

"See you at two then, Hunter."

With that, he was gone, the door slowly falling back into place. I watched him mount his bike, slip on a helmet, and roar out of the parking lot loudly. I blinked a few times and considered our conversation-he'd just offered me a job as his bouncer, at Rusty's. He was the owner then? A pretty low riding profile for a guy running a biker bar-but then again, I could see it in his demeanor: he was a biker through and through, as well as many other things hidden away from the world's eye. I sat, rolled back in the chair, and stared at the counter; all the paperwork I had to do before two. Glancing at the computer, the clock glared 12:32, and I sat up. I'd better call Felix and get those parts en-route.

I guess I had an interview at two I couldn't miss

. . .

I left work around 1:4, and managed to stop home for a bit before my interview. Ruger greeted mea t the door, as usual, and I brushed past him to find something a bit more professional to change into. He'd hinted at a bit more physical of an interview, so I opted for a loose fitting pair of black cotton gaucho pants and some nude flats. For a top I grabbed a navy blue, light cotton button down with capri-sleeved buttoned with leather buckle-straps on the arms. I quickly tousled my hair and threw it back into a messy bun, letting my face framing hang down in almost impossible curls, and threw in my contacts to finish the look. I opted for some nude lip-gloss. Grabbing my Xelement leather jacket, I opted for car instead of bike, and grabbed the keys to my 1969 Camaro.

I rolled into a parking space at 1:52. Sliding the Camaro into park, I switched it off and circled the keys around my finger, popping open the door. Sliding out of the sportscar, I locked it behind me and looped my Le Donne organizer over my shoulder. Pulling my prescription Ray Ben's on top my head, I stepped towards the door and knocked lightly before pushing it open with a light shoulder.

"Yeah, come on in." I fully crested the doorframe now, light filtering into the dimly lit bar behind me. It was entirely empty, chairs put up on tables, the Jukebox turned down low playing a Huey Lewis and the News song. I spotted him behind the bar, polishing two glasses with a bottle of E & J Brandy out on the counter. He leaned against the back of the bar, his leather coat, sunglasses, and helmet draped over the old-fashioned register. He didn't look up from his polishing, "Wanna drink?"

I took this as a casual atmosphere and closed the door behind me, approaching the bar. I slid into one of the barstools and nodded, "Sure. E & J, jeez, I haven't drank that since I was at home." He pushed himself off the counter and grabbed the bottle, slapping one of the glasses down before me with a light crack. He uncapped the bottle and poured two half-glasses, then capped it and set it aside.

"You drink it straight?" He asked, wondering if I wanted a Coke or something to mix with it. I nodded and grabbed the glass. He took a big gulp of it, and I followed suite, and then he raised his brows, surprised, "Well I guess that answers that."

"No need to complicate a perfectly good drink," I set the glass down and looked at the amber brandy within it, then rested my elbows on the bar, somewhat nervous.

We didn't say anything for a moment until he asked the first question. "Why'd you come?"

I looked up at him and shrugged a shoulder, "Because you offered me a job?" He gave me a "yeah-right" look and I took another drink, "Or is that the wrong answer?"

"That answer was bull and you know it." He crossed his arms over his chest, which was thickly muscled for his age, told by the tight black t-shirt he was wearing. I diverted my eyes, haven't been so accustomed to such sights in many, many years. He continued his thought, "so, to rephrase that question, what's the _real _reason you came? 'Cause you didn't have to."He took and drink and waited.

I was careful, then replied, "I think that's a hasty question to start an interview on."

He was quick, "Who said this wasn't a hasty interview?"

I looked at him and blinked, his bluntness surprising to me. I hadn't dealt with anyone so frank since the Rangers; since, well, Nick. I slipped off the barstool, unshouldered my bag, and let it drop to the ground beside the stool. I reached behind the bar for where I knew a bowl of marchino cherries was already waiting. I plucked up one and plopped it into my drink, "I guess I came because I wanted to see if I still got it, y'know? See if I was as good as I think I am still." I popped another cherry into my mouth and shrugged a shoulder, sliding back into my booth. He took another drink, gave me a satisfied, small smile, and I gave him a look, "that's what you were lookin' for, huh?"

"At least you admitted it." He pushed himself from the counter and came around the bar. He slipped into the stool beside mine and put his elbows up onto the bar and stared down into his drink, "How long have you been discharged?"I sensed the "formal" part of the interview was about to start, and forced myself to be polite, as much as I wanted to match wits with this guy.

I puffed out a breath, doing the math, "Going on six years? I was honorably discharged after..." I didn't finish the thought, "I was a Ranger."

He nodded, catching on, "Where were you stationed?"

"Fort Benning," When he shook his head, I elaborated, "Georgia. Regimental Special Troops Battalion." I dug the dogtags out from behind my shirt and looked down at them, "First Lieutenant."

He nodded, "Nice."

I smirked, "Yeah, I guess. Hard work, but it was a good run. I was in Iraq." I looked down into my drink, "That was my last mission before I was discharged." I shrugged a shoulder, "But everyone's time comes to an end, huh?"

He didn't say anything, "That all you know how to do?"

I shook my head, "No. I joined after I graduated college, they put me through my Masters. Communications and Fine Arts," I snorted, "Go figure." I took another drink and looked at him from the corner of my eye. Clanking the glass down, I asked, "Is that required?"

He chuckled, "For a bouncer? Not exactly." He shifted in his chair and reached for the E & J bottle again, "Married, any kids?"

I snorted, "Now there's a question you can't technically ask."

He smiled, "Considering this is a cash job, Hunter, I can ask whatever in the heck I wanna ask. And, this isn't exactly the type of job that looks good on a resume or at daycare."He waited, expectant. When I didn't answer, he raised his brows, "So?"

"So," I interjected, a bit agitated by his pushiness, "no. I'm not married and I don't have kids." I shrugged a shoulder, and I thought about Nick briefly, before pushing the thought out of my head. I glanced at him and looked him over, "So, since this isn't a formal interview, you married or got kids?"

He laughed, "You got balls, babe." He shook his head and slipped off the stool, "Nah, I don't got kids or a wife. I'm past that."

I raised my brows, "Really? I wouldn't have guessed that."He walked to the middle of the dining area and stopped below the light, between two tables. He crossed his arms over his chest and I slipped off the stool, following him. I stopped about ten feet from him, under the same light. "You don't strike me as a married guy, but, I would've guessed you were seeing someone."

"Prying into my personal life isn't the way to make a first impression,"

"You asked first," I said lightly, chuckling, "Now, you said something about a physical aspect of this interview. So, I'm guessing you're going to want me to punch something, am I right?" I chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, "Or do you want me to-"

Without warning, he lunged forward towards me, bringing around a wide punch to my right. I ducked it and pivoted on my feet, so his arm went over me and he stepped past me. I dodged to the left, now behind him a few feet, panting for breath because of the sudden, unexpected attack, "What the heck..."

He came back around quickly, this time with a barrage of wide, strong punches. I managed to duck them all, before I dropped and went for his midsection. I pushed him back a few feet, hard, and dipped out of the way before he could grab onto me. He stumbled, but did not falter, and this time and lunged again, trying to grab me by the shoulders this time, "Watch it-!" I pivoted it on my feet, ramming my right shoulder into his thick chest, stepping half a step forward as he went half a step back. This time he grabbed onto my forearm, brought me around and strongarmed me around the chest, bringing us back. I, not without struggle, shifted my weight forward and planted my feet on the ground. With the sudden shift of momentum I felt his body briefly relax to cope, and then I shifted within his arms and rammed my shoulder deeper into his breastbone. Gripping onto his arm, I dipped deep to my knees and pushed myself into his legs, sending his body over mine where he hit the ground-hard. The wind obviously knocked out of him, I released his hand took a half step back.

He, breathing hard and laying flat on his back, looked up at me and chuckled, "Very nice. Ruthless. You're stronger than I anticipated." He sat up, slowly, and I came around to offer him a hand. He took it and I helped him up, breathing hard. The heat was heavy in the room and I had sweat sticking some of my face framing to my cheek, and he brushed off his arm.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be sorry," he looked upset, "You did your job, which was to get me off you and protect yourself. And you managed to do it without wrecking anything." He gestured to some of the tables and chairs around us, "You could use some work with your timing and reflexes, but otherwise you're solid. I have a friend who could work you into shape within a few weeks and you'd be golden."

He gave me a once over and walked towards the bar, rolling his oversized watch back into place. A ring on his left hand caught the light and glinted. "I don't need worked into shape," I frowned at him, following towards the bar, "I like the way I look, thanks."

He put up a hand to silence me and leaned against the bar counter, taking a drink of brandy and shaking his head, indicating I misunderstood. "I didn't mean it the way you think. You're just a bit slow, but that can get worked on."

"I don't need it worked on," I spat at him, taking a drink myself, "But thanks anyway."

He shrugged, "You wanna get your butt handed to you, fine. But you start at five, and it's $11.50 an hour." He put the glass behind the bar, as well as the bottle, and retrieved his things from the register, "You're drink limit is four, or however many I think you can handle. Tips split between bar, house, and kitchen, and I'll get you a key by Monday." I watched him, saying nothing, as he slipped on his sunglasses and shrugged on his jacket, "Marg usually does the books on Saturdays and Sundays late so you need to stay. I do them Fridays or whenever I think I need to, and when I'm here you leave whenever you get done." He didn't say anything after that, and I downed the last of my brandy, placing the glass behind the counter. He gestured with his head towards the door and we walked out together, me shouldering my purse.

We stopped at the door, faced one another; me with my jacket over my arm and he with his helmet at hand. He looked me over again and nodded once, firmly, "What's your first name again?"

"Ruth, but I go by Rue." I extended a hand, "Thanks, Mr. Ros-"

He again shook my hand, strongly, "Barney, or Ross, whatever. Mr. is out of the equation altogether." He opened the door for me and I stepped through it into the sunlight, the heat and sunshine hot on my face. He stopped as I stepped off the sidewalk to the Camaro."'69?" He questioned.

"Yep," I nodded, "Sure is." I popped open the door after unlocking it.

"She's gorgeous," he strode towards his own bike, "I'd be careful with that around here. I've had some jealous hands trying to make off with bikes. Thankfully none of them have made it past the stoplight, but still. Be a shame if she went missing."

I smiled at him, "That just goes to show you how much you have to learn about me, Ross." I slipped into the car, popped the key in, and the engine roared to life as I turned it. I rolled own the window to the passenger side and he dipped at the waist to look at me through it, "Anyone touches her and I'll rip his testicles up his throat."

He nodded, "Sure, I buy that." He rapped on top the car's hood and turned his back to me, waving a hand out in a goodbye, "See you around seven, Hunter."

"My name's Rue-"

"Seven, Hunter; and don't be late."


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N:** All geographical locations are fictional and subject to the author's imagination. All people and places are used fictitiously, any reference to real events and/or individuals is purely coincidental.

Also; please, review!

**Chapter Four**

Leo Torres was popular among the Peruvian Amazonian people. Known specifically for his money and seemingly unlimited resources, the people there respected his strong arm and ideals. He was lividly mad with ideas for the village of Poroco, a small, insignificant place tucked away in the dense foliage of the Amazon jungle. Those ideas he proposed with as much furiousness as a man could muster, and soon with the arrival of the first shipment came the full devotion of the villagers. He prided himself with his work, with his money, and with his reputation.

The fact that his business was grotesque did not bother him. He called it creatively misunderstood, this debauchery of human spirit and innocence. It didn't matter, though; it was big money that Poroco was willing to pay, and as long as it was kept off the radar and inside Leo's pockets, it was the stuff of dreams. It didn't matter that nightly there was escape attempts; victims would rather take their chances in the jungle than one more day inside Poroco, and it didn't matter that daily they suffered fatalities from exhaustion and other ailments—starvation, illness, suicide. Leo ignored the setbacks and just kept the shipments coming, weekly their arrived fresh meat for the feast of the villagers, succumbed to the luxury of full satisfaction and pleasure.

To all this Jo Carnage shook her head. As a faithful employer to Leo, she too had to overlook the atrocities of the business. She, long ago, had numbed herself to the eyes of the little ones, to the eyes of the innocent which had slain the innocent girl inside her. She turned her head to the cries of the girls in the night as the men had their fill, as they threw them against walls and whipped their skin as if they were animals. She, ever so decadent in her roll, instead focused her attention on the money inside her pockets—as well as the money inside Leo's. As his right-hand and the object of his affection, she had no other choice but to ignore the sin. She had no choice but to turn her head from the dark side of this business; instead she set herself to the betterment of it, purposing it was "just business" and nothing personal. It was numb to her, and to him, and it was numb to the world. The world didn't care, just indulged itself in this God- forsaken place.

She shivered—the nights in the jungle were cold, especially this one. She watched from the upper story of the bungalow, watched as the night was befalling the small village. Many of the men were returning from the jungles, to where Leo had set them hard to work at clearing sections of the trees for additional acreage. Many came from the bigger cities to indulge themselves on the weekends; some of their best clients came from Chile and Paraguay, as well as Brazil and Argentina. She watched as, one by one, they exited the workers' quarters and lined themselves at the gate to the "Recreational Housing" district, where they paid their nightly entrance fees and were unarmed. Their weapons, which were permitted outside the housing compound, were tactfully tossed into a wooden trunk, waiting for them as they exited. She watched as they crossed into the fenced in courtyard, each man splitting away from the other and heading towards the small shacks lined against the fencing. One by one the lights flicked out.

Jo crossed her arms over her chest and forced a smile on her lips. There were twice as many men as yesterday, which meant more money. Perhaps she would be able to fly the new 2014 Wrangler model into the compound, like Leo had promised. Or, perhaps, he'd fly her out of here for the week, off to some exotic place by the ocean where she could rest on the sand and get out of this jungle foliage. There was a soft knock on the door and it creaked open, Jo turning from the window.

"Ah, my love," his thick accent was smooth, almost like honey—thick, poisonous honey. She smiled at him and looked back to the window, a satisfied smile on her lips. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle and pulled her into him. Nuzzling his lips against the soft of her neck, he placed thick kisses there and she inhaled his scent—cigar, with a mixture of jungle and sweat thrown together in a delicious aroma. She turned in his arms and wrapped her hands around his neck and let them slide down onto his pecks. He stared down at her lustfully, and the breeze caught the edge of her silk robe, causing it to tickle around her ankles. "You look exquisite." He whispered to her.

She chuckled, "Don't I always?"

He shrugged, grabbed one of her hands, and kissed her palm. Then, he stepped towards the bed, leading her, where he gracefully slid into place above the comforter. She slipped onto the bed and straddled his legs, reaching to assist him with unbuttoning his khaki shirt, which was stained with the day's sweat. He finagled out of it, sporting a glistening chest of muscle and perspiration, and tossed the shirt aside. He smiled at her and took her hands, stroking her knuckles. He chuckled, "Yes, you do always look so beautiful, Josephina. Always so beautiful." She leaned forward to plant a kiss on his lips, him reaching to untie her robe.

The cries in the night were inaudible from that point on.

. . .

It was fifteen after six when I'd checked my watch.

I'd taken Ross' advice and spent my day beginning a new routine at the pool, working myself into a good workout doing laps of the front-crawl by the dozens. I reserved myself a lane three days a week for two hours before leaving. With no time to shower, I opted to pull my hair into a bun and slip on the jeans and the button down shirt I ad snagged from home, putting them overtop a wet swimming suit. It was June, and the evening was muggy as I left, messenger bag over my shoulder.

Rusty's was busy with life as I pulled my Camaro to the curb across the street. I slung my organizer over my shoulder and grabbed my leather jacket from the passenger seat. Popping the keys from the ignition, I tossed them into the organizer and crossed the street quickly. Three guys were dismounting their bikes, each casting a careful look at me before scouring me with their eyes, and I ignored them as I tossed open the front door to the establishment. I took in the scene of the bar as I weaved my war between patrons towards the front counter, where Marg and Rina were in a frenzy serving drinks.

The Jukebox was loud, as were the patrons playing at a rowdy game of pool. The steaming smell of steak and vegetables saturated my noise as a hot plate passed by. Rina shouted something to Marg, who shouted back about a Windsor 7, until Rina spotted me and ushered me over to the bar, a smiling beaming on her face. She squealed, came around the bar, and wrapped me in a hug. Her blonde curls were bouncing around her face, fallen out of its clip, but her ruby red lips were as perfect as her brown eyes. She was a bit older than me, but did not look it, and surely didn't act it. "Hiya, honey! I heard you joined the ranks," she patted me on the shoulder and released me from her hub, "Welcome aboard!" Marg came hustling over, hands full of dirty plates and steak-knives, but she still offered me a broad smile.

"Welcome to hell, Rue honey. Glad to have ya." She winked, stepped by us and burst into the kitchen, hollering about a baked potato. Rina just smiled and giggled, then hurried behind the bar, pointing to the corner of the room, where she shouted over a whoop of men's cheering.

"Barney's over there, he said to steer you his way when you got here!" With that, her attention span was gone, and she went back to wildly making her drinks and sliding them across the well-used bar. I just stood there, taking in the immense noise of the place, lost. I couldn't believe I had volunteered for this.

Finally collecting myself and urging myself to walk over to the corner, I slipped around people until I managed to stumble before the round table, which was littered with beer-bottles, peanut shells, and cigar remains. There was a swirl of cigar smoke, as well as cigarette clouds, and the table dropped their conversation upon my arrival. I stood there, as someone roughly shouldered past me, knocking me forward. My hip hit the edge of the table and jostled the bottles, rattling them noisily.

Barney was directly across from me, his companion from earlier to his left. Another African-American man was to his right, along with a burly, dirty-blonde haired guy. Another man in a ball-cap with neatly trimmed facial hair and a thick build was to my left. I suddenly felt as if I were a microscope the way they were all _staring. _I brushed off my jeans and blew a flyaway curl out of my face, the smell of chlorine heavy. Straightening, I swallowed thickly and gave them a tight smile and lazy wave. Barney leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling slightly as if he'd just won a prize. "You showed up."

This confused me, and I shot back an answer before thinking, "You didn't think I would?"

He chuckled, "I guess I wasn't expecting you to be _early_," he looked to his boys and gestured to me, leaning the back of the chair into the wall. "But, since you're here, we might as well get you started." He got up and stretched an arm, a crack resounding loud enough for me to pick up on. He rounded the table, "Guys, this is the new bounce, Hunter." I wrinkled my brow.

"It's _Rue._" I chided him softly. He ignored it and continued with introductions.

The man to his left, the one from this afternoon, lifted his beer and took a long drink. Upon further inspection he was rather dashing, not quite as brutal as Barney was. He had dark eyes and a hard, less welcoming expression, and at once I knew he would become a challenge. Barney pointed at him, "That ugly dog is Lee Christmas-"

"Pfft," I couldn't help myself. My eyes widened as I clapped a hand over my mouth quickly, almost dropping my jacket. My face flushed red and the man scowled, as did everyone else at the table. Barney just raised his brows at me and gave me a sarcastic, surprised look. "I'm sorry," I added lightly, "that wasn't appropriate."

"Like the devil it wasn't." My eyes widened at Christmas' voice. He had a thick, British accent, which I was not expecting-at all. I leaned over the edge of the table and extended a hand to him, hoping to make amends. He stood halfway up from his chair and extended his own, clasping mine and initiating the shake. I apologized again. "Nice to make your acquaintence, _miss._" His sarcasm was thick, and his expression hard. I looked down.

"I'm sorry, really. It was uncalled for."

He shrugged a shoulder and rolled his eyes, "Ain't the first time it's happened."

"You got _that _right!" The black man piped up now, all smiles and laughing. He'd been snorting most of the conversation anyone, but he stood and extended a hand to me. I clasped it and he shook it-hard. I scanned him over quickly, and I was amazed at the genetic makeup of this man-he was huge! His arms were the size of my thighs; concaved with muscles and rippling with strength. He had a broad smile, extremely white teeth, and actually wasn't bad looking. He seemed upbeat enough when he introduced himself, "Name's Caesar." He winked at me, "Don't worry about Happy Holidays over there, he's like that with everyone."

I smiled at him, and Barney sighed heavily behind me. He gestured to the man in the ballcap, who stood up and came over to extend a hand, and the man beat him to introductions. He held a beer in his hand and shook my hand firmly, but not roughly. He had dark eyes as well, and some scarring on his face. "Toll's the name, babe. Good to meet ya." He raised his beer slightly and seated himself again.

The blonde got up now, this time coming to stand next to Barney. He was obviously the muscle of the group (but, by no means were any of them in need of an individual muscle-man). He had a mixture of scars on his face, and mossy green eyes. Hard set jaw, big build-and he stood at least a head and a half taller than me. I was slightly intimidated by his intense stare, but when he extended a thick hand to me, I relaxed only slightly. He gave me a small, half-smile, and jerked his head to move the part of his hair out of his eyes. "Gunnar. You've got a heckuva kick." I raised my brows at this as he released my hand, and I shrugged a shoulder, quickly eyeing Barney, but then giving him my attention again.

"Thanks."

"Barney said you're a Ranger," the man, Toll, stated, taking a long drink from a Coors. He sat back in his chair and tipped the bill of his ball-cap back only slightly, "You in or out?"

"Out," I said a bit hastily, "Six years now." I gave Barney a quick glance, and he had his arms crossed over his thick chest. I didn't have time to study his physique when the Brit posed the next question.

"Why?" It sucked the air out my lungs, but I replied hastily.

"I was honorably discharged on account of injury." I darted my eyes away from him and reached up to scratch the back of my head. Suddenly my jacket and organizer got heavy and I reshouldered my bag. There was another hoop, Rina was shouting, and a glass shattered in the kitchen. This drew the attention to the table and Barney tapped my shoulder and gestured behind the bar.

"You can put your stuff behind the bar, and help out Rina and Marg where you can. Part of bouncing is keeping house, don't worry, you'll pick up the routine." I nodded and he began walking away before I turned to nodded to the table of guys.

"Nice meeting you all," I said heartily, "and sorry again." I nodded to the Brit. He waved me off with a sly grin and I turned on my heel to follow Barney to the bar. I rounded it, stashed my things in the wet corner when Marg wiggled her fingers at two glasses on the shelving that I was close to.

"Give, give!" she chanted, and I quickly grabbed them, slapping them ontop the bar and sliding them down to her. She quickly stopped them, swirled around, and brimmed them with ice as a shot glass landed right in front of me, the owner a huge biker with a braided red bird and nasty smelling breath.

"Hit me with another tequila, baby!" He roared, a group of guys chanting him on. I grabbed the nearest bottle, plucked a lemon from the cup by the sink and plopped it in his shot glass. I doused it with the alcohol and he threw his head back, tossing the cup into the corner where it shattered into a million pieces. He turned, hurried away from the bar. I was still squatting, overwhelmed by the noise, when shattering glass erupted from above me reigned down around me. I saw the shards fall and heard Rina swear.

"Sorry, Rue baby!" She hurried around the bar and was gone. I shook the pieces from my hair and steadied myself against the small sink, trying to process the adrenaline lacing through my veins. But, the bubbling sensation in my chest wasn't adrenaline, I realized, neither was it fear or dread or hate. Then I felt my lips upturn in a smile and I realized it was _fun. _I was having _fun. _I heard a chuckle above me and I jerked my head to look up, my hair whisking across my face. Barney just shook his head and smiled at me, leaning against the bar, where he popped the bottle cap off a Miller and took a long drink. Looking at the label and then back to me, and offered a hand to me, and I took it, and as if I were nothing he helped me up. I heard the crack of a pool ball, a _thwap _of darts on the dartboard, and a _Heart _song blaring on the Jukebox, all mixed in with shouting and laughing and hollering, as well as the noise from the kitchen. Somewhere I heard a chorus of bikes roar to life and speed away down the street.

"Is it always like this?" I shouted to Barney, who turned an ear to me to hear me. He laughed and took another drink, clapping his free hand on my shoulder. He then leaned in close, and I felt his lips on my earlobe where he said,

"You're gunna fit in just fine." He let his hand fall from my shoulder, and he sauntered back to his table, where his group of friends were still watching me. I turned from them to dash forward where Marg was struggling with her hands full. I stumbled into her, grabbed the set of plates from her left hand, and followed her towards the kitchen. She hollered at me, chuckling; wreaking of alcohol, smoke, and mint gum.

"Welcome to the mad house, honeychild!"

. . .

It was roughly nine when Barney checked his watch.

So far, the night was good; still young, but good. He'd drank a few beers, played a game of pool, challenged someone at a game of darts, and ordered a round of shots for the house. Toll and Hale had a bet going that the two girls at the pool table would be on their arm by the time the night was over, and Gunnar was going at it with his knife; carving up an apple from the kitchen. Christmas was just content watching the cacophony of people go in and out, ever having his eye on poor Rina, who was working like a dog. Barney made a mental note to consider giving her a raise. And Marg...he considered giving her a vacation.

Though, he wasn't so busy watching them; Barney knew they would handle themselves just fine. It was the new girl, Rue; who he'd been watching all evening. Granted, not only was his interest in her ability piqued, but; he found her entertaining. She was sarcastic, spunky, and had far too much moxie that he usually liked in women, but what she had in spirit she leveled out with maturity and likeability. He watched her from his chair, engaging with the patrons, always smiling and laughing. She had light eyes that were like sapphires-yes, they were blue he remembered-and they _sparkled. _ Barney hadn't seen eyes that were light and sparkling in so long he had forgotten such eyes existed.

But, she was also dark. He could see the Ranger in her; the sticktoitiveness, the hard work, the...discipline. He could see she was strong-there wasn't a question in that, but he could also see she did not take her orders from anyone she did not respect. He could see the temper in her...she could snap at any moment. Daring, living on the edge ran through her-she was like an avalanche: one wrong word and she'd be gone. He kept that bit to himself though, he'd have to test his intuition later when he trusted her a bit more. He didn't give his trust out to any pretty face.

Having moved on from beer to brandy, he took a hard drink and let the burning liquid trace down his throat and settle in his belly. He thought about the message he got from Church yesterday and when they were supposed to meet tomorrow. Good God he hated that man, but at the same time, Church had bailed him out on more than one occasion, but he still hated him. The thought left his mind when he watched the three women behind the bar simultaneously poor three glasses of vodka for three men, all slobbering drunk and hoping to get lucky. The three women were all smiles and broke into a chorus of laughter, falling into one another as one of the men fell off his chair.

"Work shouldn't be _that _fun," Gunnar interjected roughly from his place. He popped a large piece of apple into his mouth, heavy boots up on the table in between the bottles and shot glasses scattered around him. Barney smiled at him and shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

"To each his own," he said deeply. Christmas shook his head and scratched the back of his neck, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table top. He pushed away his empty bottle and gave Barney a look.

"You think she's got it to bounce this place, eh?" He asked quickly. Toll and Hale decided to join the conversation now that it involved the woman. Hale hadn't been able to take his eyes off the newcomer, and rightly so; she wasn't too difficult to look at, as Barney had noticed. A bit hefty, but not hard to look at. Christmas continued his thought, "I mean, hey, with us up in here it can get pretty colorful."

"Pretty colorful?" Toll interjected, a look of disgust on his face, "Bloody only comes in one color, doesn't it?"

Gunnar snorted, "Unless you bleed green."

"Nah, that'd be your department, insect." Toll pushed his empty bottle to the side as Gunnar's feet dropped ungracefully from the table. He slammed his knife onto the table, rattling the glasses, and stood up quickly, his chair tipping backwards.

Barney watched the bar. Instantly, Marg and Rue, the only two at the bar, stopped to look at them. Rue came barreling out from behind the bar like a racehorse, and was en route to their table with heavy footfalls. She shouldered past a patron, and stood before their table like she had just hours before, this time hands on her hips and looking furious. She looked between the two of them, Toll now standing, and then straight at him. He put his hands up and raised his shoulders in defeat.

"Don't look at me, bouncer. I was out of it."

"Fine," she shot a look to Gunnar, "what seems to be the problem?" Gunnar dared a look away from Toll, who was glaring, and then gave her his full, angered attention span. Barney doubted Gunnar would challenge her, a woman, but then again he'd seen stranger things happen. Christmas gave him a slightly concerned look, but Barney ignored it. "Something going on here, Gunnar, was it?"

"Yeah, this toad," he pointed an angry finger at Toll, "is flappin' his lips."

She looked at Toll and then back to Gunnar, "Well if he's just flappin' his lips at you, you must've been running your mouth pretty heavy." The way she said it was on the verge of frustrated and challenging, and Gunnar noted it. He glared at her for a moment and stepped a few steps forward, until he shadowed her in his full, thick, Swede frame. Barney got up instantly-there was no way...

"Your cruisin', girlie-"  
>"Speak for yourself." She cut him off, crossing her arms over her chest. She stared him dead, smack-dab in the face, and now Christmas was up from his seat, as was Hale. Marg and Rina were watching from the bar. Gunnar, now infuriated, contained his anger well by letting his chest rise and fall in rapid breathes. Barney leaned over the table and clapped a hand on his shoulder.<p>

"Gunnar, let her-"

He jerked away, "So the bounce's' got balls, huh?" He stepped for her and she stepped back, but not in defeat. She put out a hand, pressed it into his chest, and stopped him where he stood. She squared her shoulders, planted her feet, and shook her head.

"I'm not doing this. Not tonight." She let her hand fall, "You have three seconds to get your butt back in that chair or I'll sit if for you." She didn't waver in her stare, and pointed at the chair, "One." The entire bar was looking at them, and Barney could feel Jensen's heat rushing through his own body. She wasn't kidding.

"Why I outta-"

"Two." She crossed her arms.

Gunnar gave him a look, Barney putting his hands up in defeat, "Don't look at me, Jensen, she's doing her job."

"And she's darn well gunna do it, too." Christmas cautioned the thick blonde.

"I'll be nice," she challenged, "Two and a half."

Gunnar glared at her and then turned quickly, walking slowly over to his chair and picking it up. He watched her as he roughly sat it up, plopped into it, and reached for his knife. Barney, after watching his episode, looked to her; and was surprised to find her with her arms still crossed over her chest, her hip cocked like a wife chastising a husband. His brows shot up at Toll, who returned to his seat, content that Gunnar popped another piece of apple into his mouth.

She looked at Barney. "No more trouble, _boss_." She said sternly, then turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. Barney and the rest of his team reseated themselves. someone dropped money into the Jukebox and started up a Queen song, and bar life resumed. They sat looking at Gunnar a few moments before Hale asked.

"What were you thinking, man?" He shook his head, "You were really gunna-"

"I was thinkin' she's about the bravest girl I've ever met," Gunnar looked at them and then let an apple skin fall onto his lap, "And I was also thinkin' that I liked her. She's got spunk, Ross," he pointed the tip of the knife at Barney, "Nice work."

"Didn't I say Barney always has it out for the good ones?" Toll snickered from his place.

Barney frowned and pushed his chair back roughly. Gesturing between the two of them, he picked up two empty bottles , "None of this. Knock it off you jaggoff's."

"Nice work, Barn," Christmas grabbed his arm and patted it, winking, "She's a keeper."

"Watch your mouth," Barney sneered at him. He approached the bar, set the bottles behind it and look up to see Marg giving him a smug look. He straightened and she tossed a bar rag over her shoulder. "Hey Marg."

"Good call, Barney-honey. Good call." She winked at him and whisked away to take an order. Barney sighed, rolled his eyes, and watch Rue kick open the door, two steaming plates at hand as she went into the throng of drinkers, looking like she'd been doing this for ten years.

He poured himself a tequila.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

"See you later, honeys! Have a nice one!" Rina wiggled her fingers at us, bright red fingernails accenting her taste, as she slugged open the heavy bar door. Reshouldering her purse, she blew us a kiss and was gone, off to her Chevy Corsica. She left moments later, and I heard her clunker halfway down the block.

I finished polishing one of the glasses and set it behind the bar, Marg emptying the dust pan of the broken glass shattered in the corner and on the rest of the floor. She then moved on to sweep up remnants of food, prepping for the cooks to mop the floor, and I tossed the bar rag under the counter next to the sink. I then turned and began to replace the mix bottles, labels facing forward, when she broke my concentration with her statement.

"You did good tonight, sweetheart," she said, glass tinking together in her broom bristles, "you handled Gunnar like a pro."

I turned, leaned against the back of the bar and crossed my feet at the ankles. I shrugged a shoulder and folded my arms in front of me, "Thanks." Was all I managed, but then I chimed in, "…is Barney's group always that—"

"Pigheaded? Egotistical? Male-chauvinistic?" Marg was lost in a laugh now as she waved the words off, "Honey, _Barney _is all those things rolled into one mixed bag. His buddies are no different. Get used of it." She sighed, "We all have to get used to Barney's boys."

While I hadn't intrinsically mentioned Barney as the individual in question, I was thinking about in the back of my head, and apparently Marg was too. I pushed myself from the bar and rounded to the dining room, where I began turning up chairs so Marg could finish sweeping. We were quiet a long moment before Marg added, "He likes you, you know."

I stopped dead, let my hand drop from the back of a chair, and whirled around to face her. "Excuse me?"

"Don't get all butt-hurt," Marg straightened, "he likes your personality. You challenge his image of women, and Barney likes a tough challenge." She emptied the dustpan into the garbage by the Jukebox, "You've got spirit—and Barney like that in women. How do you think I managed to stick around this joint for 11 years?"

I thought about this, then added, "Yeah, well, he's a bit of a dark horse for me."

She guffawed, "A dark horse? Honey, Barney is _the _dark horse! He's been single his whole life and ain't never gunna settle down with any woman—not matter how spirited or beautiful she is. I've never even seen a woman on his arm—sure, they try, and he flirts a bit, but he's nothing like that." She propped her hands on top the broom handle and sighed, cocking a hip, "Shame too. He's a decent guy, Barney is. And not to mention a fox." This made us laugh, and she winked at me, "He'd be a good catch if a girl could settle him down. His head thinks he's twenty, but his logic hasn't exactly caught up with his physique." I shook my head, still chuckling, and finished putting up the chairs. Marg came over and passed the broom and dust-pan over to me, "Now, go finish behind the bar." She shooed me away and collected the last of the tips scattered around the tables.

I considered her thought as I swept up the remnants of lemon skins and cherries, as well as broken glass and the other littering objects of the bar. Barney Ross _was _quite a character, that was for sure, but I hadn't taken the time to really study him; just his eyes. I always went for the eyes, because they were after all the windows into the soul—and I saw something in Barney that was hidden away, but precious. Something he didn't share with everyone, which was an ability I myself practiced. He had a hard stare to him, but one that was at the same time easy-going. He liked to laugh, and he liked to smile, it came naturally and easy to him. He had likeability, and strangely enough, sex appeal.

His friends though were a different story. I found them engaging and interesting, as well as dangerous. They reminded me, each in their own way, of my troop in the Rangers. Each one of them possessed a unique attribute or skill that set them apart, we called it the "gang criteria" back in Georgia. It was typical of Hollywood—you needed the leader, the techy, the sexy, the funny to make the clique work. Well, Barney definitely did have those men in his posse, that was for certain. They were an interesting group of guys, and I was looking forward to getting to know them more.

Actually, as I replaced the broom and dustpan, I realized I was looking forward to this job. I didn't realize how much I missed myself before the confrontation with Gunnar—his standoffishness challenged my inner lioness; my inner deesire for adventure and action. I had missed the buzz someone gets from actively thinking about a fight—the adrenaline, the surge of heat. I missed the fun it presented, the mental games and the challenges of whit it required. I smiled to myself when I thought of his face when he'd relented to the chair—and the panic elicited by his friends, and finally the shock and awe of them as they realized I had actually won the challenge. I guessed they'd never seen their friend whipped by a woman before as I took a stack of twenties from the register, Marg counting out the mound of ones.

. . .

After dismissing the guys from the plane's hangar and reassuring them he'd be meeting with Church sometime tomorrow, Barney settled into the night with a bottle of Tylenol and a case of Miller's. It was one of June's warmer nights, and he relished in stargazing; leaning against the huge hangar door, beer at hand, feet crossed at the ankles and a hand in his jean's pocket. He tipped his Miller to his lips and took a drink, and checked the constellations, making sure they were all there—as if he could control it otherwise.

He felt a sharp prick, and then clasped his hand around the object in his pocket. Pulling it out, he sighed and rolled his eyes—he'd forgotten to give Marg the keys to place. He always took the key from behind the bar on Saturdays, since those nights tended to be the most rowdy. He groaned and turned on his heel, ready to retrieve his jacket. He set the half-drank bottle of Miller on the toolbox, littered with tools and instruments for his tune-ups. Circling the keys around his finger, he opted for car instead of bike. He headed towards the back shed, where he kept his bike and car, but pulled up when he came across the stainless steel table littered with an array of firepower—two Baretta's, a Glock, a shotgun and M16 ammo were sprayed, unorganized, across the table. Shrugging, he grabbed one of the Baretta's and stuffed it into the waist of his pants, slipping two magazines into his jacket pockets.

He left the sanctity of the hangar, and crossed over to the vehicles shed.

. . .

"Doggone it," Marg mumbled forty minutes later, setting the deposit bag on the bar. Her shoulders drooped in defeat. "Barney forgot to leave me the flippin' keys again." She bent, and then I heard something clunk in the sink.

"Don't you have a set?" I asked, curious. I remembered also that he promised me a key to the place earlier, but doubted he had time to make me copies—between his drinking and schmoozing the night away, he seemed pretty busy. Marg popped tall, grabbed the deposit bag, and then pointed at the register.

"No, I don't," she sighed, "Barney takes the keys on Saturdays to be safe," she looked to me, "you didn't leave anything in the register, right?" I shook my head no, and she nodded. Outside, I heard the boom of someone's subs pound the silence of the night away, followed by loud, shrieking calls and laughter. I spun on my heel, to find two sets of headlights beaming into the plate-glass of the front windows. Then, I heard car doors slam. I looked over my shoulder at Marg and she wrinkled her brow.

"Don't they see the sign's off?" She frowned, grabbing the deposit bag, "I'm sorry we're—" her voice began to raise, but then the figures stopped in front of the store. I couldn't see their faces due to the light, but I could see they were all male—

-and they were all reaching for the insides of their jackets.

"Get DOWN!" I screamed, lunging for her small frame. I took her down to the ground, us both smacking against the oiled wood hard, and her screams were overrode by the sudden explosion of gunfire. A spray of automatic weapons shattered the plate glass windows, it falling in, and I felt the earth vibrate with the intense power of the guns.

The place began falling apart. Gunfire destroyed the tables and knocked some chairs around, and they managed to decimate the Jukebox. Bullets bounced off the floor and the ceiling, shattering some of the lights, causing remnants of bulb to fall on us. By this point my heart was pounding and Marg was trembling and screaming, her body convulsed into the fetal position. I moved and slid my body around, ferociously kicking at the legs of a table to knock it down. The chairs slid off the table as it crashed to the earth, and I grabbed Marg's wrist. The gunfire stopped.

"Reload!" I could hear them with the glass now cracked and shattered. They weren't coming into the building though, so I popped tall and Marg followed, a mess of tears and shaking convulsions. I dashed behind the bar, pulling her down with me, and then I heard footsteps. They were inside now, and coming towards the bar. "Okay, sweethearts, let's see the money!" I closed my eyes, sweat beading on my forehead, Marg's trembling body pressed against my own. She looked at me, fearful, and passed the deposit bag into my hands as if I were the prime candidate to do this. It was probably why I was calm, but I didn't appreciate her volunteering me for this position. But, one look in her terrified eyes told me I would've done it regardless of her actions. Then, she took two trembling hands and reached up under the sink, and pulled hard, wrinkling her face to indicate effort. She removed her hands and to my surprise, shoved a simple Ruger handgun into my hands. She took back the deposit bag and situated herself underneath the bar.

I nodded, gently pulled back on the slide and felt it arm. I noticed no shake to my hands and felt confidence burst within me, and I heard an automatic rifle snap into armament, another man shoved a magazine to place. All these familiars of war came stampeding back into my brain—I had forgotten them. Subconsciously, I felt myself rise to my haunches, unaware of my own thoughts due to the amount of blood pumping through my ears. Every inch of me was hot, and I felt like a volcano eruption had replaced the heartbeat inside me. My lungs felt like an empty canyon, echoing loudly all my breaths. They knew I was behind the bar, why were they hesitating?

I listened. Their footfalls were untimed, and I counted four men. One set of footfalls stopped around the pool table area, another around the Jukebox. I heard one man shove open the door to the kitchen and disappear. The other must've been standing somewhere in the room. I suddenly saw a bobbing shadow grow as he walked forward in the lights, and I realized he was in front of the bar. I inhaled a breath and held it. I noticed myself counting.

_One…two…three….four…five…_ I heard him arm the weapon again and I listened to the weapon move in his hands. I looked at the shadow and then up into the mirror which was situated over the drink mixes: he was aiming at the glass. One shot would shatter it and sending it raining down on us. I looked to Marg—her eyes were pinched shut, and she hadn't noticed him take aim. She'd surely scream and pop tall, and they'd be surprised and fill her full of holes without thinking. I tried to get her attention, and started counting again, reasoning I pop tall on three and fill his face with lead. I began my countdown, wishing I'd never taken this job.

_One._

"I said show me the money, missy!" He had a thick voice, one that hinted at African-American roots. I swallowed thickly, my throat a dry tube of membrane. I blinked hard, feeling sweat fall into my eyes.

"C'mon, we gotta go!" Another man hollered across the room. His footsteps were rapid and he charged the bar, then they came to a stop. I tried to reimagine the bar in my mind, but I was far too busy mentally making a picture of the quickest escape route. I'd have to circle the entire floor to get to the door, with Marg in tow no less. If I did get these goons on the floor, the other guy in the kitchen would pick us off. It was impossible without someone else covering us. I looked up in the mirror and saw the guy shifting his weight on his feet, obviously antsy. He wouldn't warn us again. His buddy nudged him in the ribs and he shot him a look.

"Do it, now!" He demanded. The guy looked to the mirror again and I swallowed whatever saliva I could muster, and positioned my hands around the grip. I let my index finger trace the trigger-cage, the other hovering just slightly on the mechanism. I pinched my eyes shut. I dared another count:

_Two. _

He then screamed at the mirror.

"Get your ever-lovin' as—"

"Hold it right there, dirtbag."

My eyes popped open at the familiar voice, and I listened to their feet scurry. I watched the mirror as the men whirled around. I couldn't see the third, and I knew the fourth was in the kitchen still. Marg opened her eyes and mouthed his name, and I nodded, her looking somewhat relieved. There was the help I had wished for. _Thank you Jesus. _

"You alright back there, Hunter?" I nodded, as if he could see me. I motioned for Marg to stay down and I popped tall, raising the Ruger to aim at the first goon I saw: a thick black men dressed to the hilt in leathers. I circled around the bar, then the room, eyes ever on the man, and came to a stop beside Barney. They all watched me and were breathing hard. Barney didn't flinch. "No holes?" He asked.

"No holes," I confirmed. I trained the gun at the man's face, opting to blow his pathetic face off the Earth, but when Barney didn't open fire, I hesitated. He just gave them a stony look, one that was cold and daring and challenging. I felt my stomach swirling and my head pounding.

"Put 'em down, boys, on the ground." Barney waved the other man in the corner, who was ferociously training his M16 on him. He changed men, aiming for another, the previous jerking to train his aim back on Barney. I reacted, aiming for the guy's chest. The other, with no one trained on him, waved his weapon between Barney and I. When Barney's goon didn't move, he stalked towards the man in the corner. The other two instantly focused on him, and I jerked, hesitating a step. I could see his finger itching the trigger.

"Don't even think about it." I threatened. They looked at me, and I walked towards the one. The other circled around me, now probably aiming at the back of my skull. Now there was a line of us, all trained on the other, but I didn't waver. The number one rule of these standoffs, at least to me, was never compromise your aim, no matter the circumstances. I darted a look to Barney, who was face-to-face with his goon. Not one of them obeyed Barney's order. So I made a new threat, "Okay, fellah's, you got some choices here: one, either you drop your guns and get out of here, or we continue this little Mexican Standoff and wait for the cops. Pick your poison."

Barney shot me a look, and then the three men looked between themselves. I must've had my gun on the brains of the operation, because they were looking at him as if he was God reincarnated. Finally, his nostrils flared and his body trembled with overboiling rage, and he released the weapon and pushed it away from him. It hit the ground before me, sitting idly, an he nodded to the guy behind me. He dropped his, too, as did Barney's. Barney circled around his goon, shoved him forward, and stood behind me, his gun trained on the two idiots. I still held my gun at the man's head and he frowned. He snarled, "You said you'd let us go, lady."

"Do I look stupid?" I asked coldly, "Don't think I don't know your guy in the kitchen is waiting. Call him out here." He flared his nostrils again, "Now."

"Yo, Bo! Get out here, a'ight?"

The kitchen door burst open, and sure enough, the gunslinger had a shotgun pointed in the general direction of my midsection. Upon realizing the situation, he lowered his aim and dropped the weapon, putting his hands in the air and slowly walking towards us, eyes ever on my hostage. Obviously not very accomplished thieves. They could've taken Barney and me at least fifty different ways.

We stood there, silent, all six of us. Then I remembered poor Marg behind the bar, "'Marg, honey. Come on out." Slowly the feisty bartender rose, deposit bag still at hand, trembling. Barney didn't dare a look over his shoulder, so instead asked me quietly.

"She okay?" His baritone was scratchy.

"She's fine," I confided. I looked at her and was about to ask her to call the police, but she was already giving an address. The guy before me freaked out, stomping is foot. He couldn't have been about 17 years old, but he had the rage of a man with a vendetta.

"You lyin' whore, you said you'd let us—"

I approached him and pressed the barrel to his forehead. He instantly froze and looked up at it. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear," I scowled at him, "now on the floor. Right now!" I shoved him backwards towards the bar, and then he dropped to his knees. The other two followed suit.

The cops showed up about five minutes later, and cuffed the boys. They were hauled off, and a detective talked to Barney on the curb as the kids' cars were being impounded. Another guy was talking to Marg. I regaled my story to homely looking man, who shook my hand and went to write up the cars. The red and blue lights danced off the wall of the building, and I watched Barney shake hands with the cop and he left. I leaned against my car and ran my hands through my hair, realizing they were slightly shaky now. Barney came up beside me and leaned against the car.

"You okay?" He looked to my hands and grabbed one of them. He released it when I nodded and he crossed his feet at the ankles, then his arms around his chest. He chuckled and sighed, "Heckuva first day."

"Tell me about it," I said rudely, "I'm sorry—"

He shrugged, smiling, "About what? There's nothing you could've done. You did your job and kept Marg safe. I'd say that's a job well done." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, and I sighed, relieved. I noticed his gun in his waist, and I pulled the bar's Ruger from the back of my pants waist. I handed it to him and he looked at it. "You might want to oil that thing. The slide is a bit tight."

He smiled at me, chuckling again, "The more I find out about you the more I'm beginning to think you're a heckuva lot more than what I thought."

"I told you you didn't know me very well."

He shrugged a shoulder and pushed himself off my car, then turned to open the door for me, "I know the type." I slipped into the car and shoved the keys into the ignition, having retrieved my purse from behind the bar after the incident. "Good work today, Hunter. You didn't disappoint."

I shrugged a shoulder, "Thanks." But, before I could stop myself, I added, "And I wasn't trying to impress."

He winked and rapped on the hood of the car, "I figured." Then, he dug in his pocket and tossed a set of keys into my lap. I picked them up and they dangled. "I suppose I should've given those to you earlier."

I snorted, "You think?"

He smiled and looked down. "Have a good night, Hunter." He kicked at a stone.

I revved the engine and dropped it into drive, "Good night, Barney. Thanks." He nodded and stepped away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'll see you tomorrow," I called to him over the revving of the engine. Then, just to show off a bit, I pinned the pedal to the floor and squealed from the curb.


End file.
